


Just A Text or Two

by Skipper (SkipperOfTardis)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:10:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkipperOfTardis/pseuds/Skipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wants to reconnect with Sherlock after he dies, so he goes up to the roof of St. Bart's Hospital to think about him for a while. He ends up by the ledge and he finds a possession of Sherlock's that got left behind before the fall - his phone. As John searches through it, he finds some things that were left unsaid between the two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just A Text or Two

It was a cold, foggy day in London; like many others that John Watson had encountered. He was sitting in his chair with a cup of tea that had long since gone cold and hadn't been touched since he sat it on the coffee table. He stared blankly at the chair across from him with a deep sadness in his eyes and a dull aching in his heart. Normally, he'd have a tall, dark detective storming about and spouting facts about a case or a new experiment to distract him from such feelings.

But not now. Sherlock Holmes was gone; gone to the world of the dead.

John had lost his friend a week earlier and had been searching - and failing - to find a way to relieve the intense grief that had situated itself in his soul. He'd tried everything from reading to drinking to trying to be like Sherlock himself and delete the event from his mind. But nothing worked. Everything reminded him of his flatmate - the sound of sirens far off in the distance, people in trench coats, even tall buildings. Sometimes, looking up was just too much; he expected to see a dark figure falling from the sky, like a fallen angel. 

The doctor sighed, deciding he needed to get out of the flat and get some fresh air. He grabbed his cane and limped his way down the stairs to the street. As he walked, he tried to think of a way to finally banish the remorse he felt from his mind. 'Maybe if I'd said something worth a damn, none of this would've happened,' he thought with a defeated sigh and a shake of his head. Then an idea came to mind - Bart's. Maybe if he went back to the place where he'd lost his friend, he'd gain some closure and be able to move on after some intensive therapy and lots of tea with jam. He hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of the hospital, looking out the window for nothing in particular. 

He climbed out when they pulled up, paying the man and thanking him. He chuckled softly to himself as the cab drove off as he remembered  He looked up and had to close his eyes at the instant images that raced through his mind. He took a few ragged breaths before opening them again and heading inside. He snuck into the back and found the stairs that led to the roof. He wondered what had been going through Sherlock's mind when he made this journey just a week before. John took a deep breath before continuing up the stairs, his cane occasionally bumping against the railing. After a few minutes, he made it to the top and pushed the door open, walking onto the roof. He squinted at the sudden brightness and raised his hand to shelter his eyes from the sun. Once he had adjusted, he stepped forward, looking around the rooftop. 

The first thing he spotted was a large, red bloodstain. He walked over to it and peered down to inspect it. From what he'd heard of the confrontation and from Sherlock's autopsy, he assumed that this stain must've been from Moriarty after he'd shot himself. He felt a shiver run down his spine and he moved past it, walking to the ledge. He took a deep breath as he stood at the edge, looking over the streets. John looked down at the sidewalk where Sherlock had met his end and had to choke back a strangled cry. He covered his mouth and sat down on the ledge, closing his eyes and rubbing his face. He felt his foot nudge something and he looked down, finding a phone next to his foot. The sight of it triggered a memory; it seemed so familiar. Then it hit him. _Sherlock._ Of course, John had watched as he threw his phone down before... He sighed raggedly, not wanting to think about that anymore. 

John quickly opened Sherlock's phone, curious to see if there was any evidence on it. He went to the last texts he'd sent before he jumped - one to Lestrade, to Molly and himself. He laughed quietly to himself; Sherlock had stayed true to his personality to the very end, telling Molly not to mess with his corpses and Lestrade not to be stupid and not to let Anderson do anything dumb either. As John read through them, he found himself getting sentimental and he went back to the menu for messages. For whatever reason, the phone had several saved drafts. With a furrowed brow, the good doctor began to search through, only to see that every single one was addressed to him. He started to read.

_I'm so sorry for what's about to happen. SH_

_I don't want to do this... SH_

___You'll be fine though, I know you will. You're strong, a soldier. SH_ _ _

_I won't actually be dying, you know. But it's still hard. SH_

_I don't know when I'll be back, but no matter what, I'll find a way home, to you. SH_

_I'll miss you, if that helps. Funny, I've never missed anyone before. You're just special, I guess. SH_

_What am I saying? Of course you're special. SH_

_I love you, John. Don't give up. SH_

John was shocked. He sat with one hand gripping the ledge with one hand and the other shaking while holding the phone. He wasn't sure what to be more surprised over - the fact that Sherlock was alive somewhere or that he thought the ex-army doctor was special or that he finally knew that his feelings were returned. He smiled slightly, overjoyed that his best friend was alive. He jumped up and shouted out his happiness, dropping his cane. He danced about on the rooftop, pumping his fists in the air in pure joy. He felt full of purpose and life again. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It took another three years for Sherlock to return to Baker Street. He'd been busy taking out Moriarty's web of crime that had spanned three continents, eight countries and too many little towns to count. He knocked hesitantly on the door 221B, hoping he wouldn't get punched too hard for this. 

John had been writing a new post on his blog when he heard someone at the door. He never gave up hope that Sherlock would come back to him, but by now, he was starting to doubt himself. Nonetheless, he rushed downstairs and opened the door. His jaw dropped and a wide grin spread across his face when he saw the tall, curly-headed detective standing there. Sherlock smiled back at him. 

"John, I'm so-" He was cut off by a tight hug that had enveloped him. John wrapped his arms around his shoulders, holding him close.   
  
"I know," he whispered, smiling to himself. John pulled away slightly, looking him in the eye.

"I love you too, you crazy man."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all!~ This is my first fic on A03 but I'm hoping to write many more! Feel free to make suggestions in the comments and leave prompts for other fics you'd like me to write.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this; have a wonderful day!


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